Grayscale
by Zelz Saihitei
Summary: Grief clung to her and turned the world from color to grayscale. [femmeslash]
1. prologue: her bruises

Disclaimer: World and characters by JKR. Plot and writing by Zelz Saihitei.  
Warnings: Aftermath of character death.

prologue: her bruises

Watery footsteps marched heavily and fast across black nylon, an unnecessary protective dome. The wet was under her feet, attracting dead blades of grass to her uncomfortable black heels. The corners of her eyes were crying mascara-tinted tears.

And only twenty feet back, she could hear the sounds of dirt being replaced in the hole where Ginny Weasley lay.

Molly Weasley had clutched her shoulder through the services, leaving blue-purple bruises underneath her warm wool overcoat. Hermione had let her. She couldn't feel the pain, anyway.

She mused; when she had first found out, she had beaten her fists against the plaster walls of their home. She had covered them with blood and they had covered her hands with bruises. She could still see the yellowish-green tainting her skin. They were her monuments, her own memorial.

Would the rain ever stop, in her head or otherwise? Hermione wanted to scream but didn't have the energy or the voice. Ginny's family had asked her to talk about their life together, how much they had meant to each other, all the promises that would no longer be kept. She presented herself before the crowd like a fallen dark angel and cried out her misery while her voice shook raindrops from her esophagus.

The ring on her finger, a silver proclamation of something special that was now dull and gone. But she wouldn't admit to herself that it was over. In her heart, there would always be Ginny's shining light.

A heavy weight fell on her shoulders. For a moment she thought it to be metaphorical, but a soft voice made her lift her head from examining the criss-cross patterns of grass on her shoes. Black and silver and grey.

"Hermione." Fleur Delacour's hand was delicate and pale, contrasting beautifully with the darkness of Hermione's eyes. Her accent was still French lilted, despite years of living in Britain. "If you need anything, you know you can come to me."

The broken down brunette said nothing. No one could return her need to her. It was buried in the ground with a bouquet of red and orange tulips and lilies of the valley. She walked away, unsure if she had said anything or no, out of the shadow of death and into grayscale.

…

The rain had turned into a storm. She abandoned her umbrella on the sidewalk and let the wind whip her into an incoherent tsunami, the waves of her grief crashing into her deserted shore. It broke one of her heels. She left her useless, grassy shoes outside of a coffee shop and let the wet concrete hurt her bare feet. She arrived home – what was left of it, after bringing in a hurricane, hints of blood still on the walls that had been her denial, her anger – and tore her clothes from her body, leaving them in ripped, defeated piles scattered across the rooms she wandered in. What was she trying to find? A woman with hair the color of red tulips in the summer and skin like lilies of the valley.

She found her in photographs and memories. Hermione let them take her away, shivering from the cold grief she had drenched herself in, until morning.

…

Pitying eyes peered over piles of papers, distracted by the appearance of Poor Hermione Jane Granger walking down the aisle, carrying a messenger bag instead of a wedding bouquet. Ginny used to joke that Hermione would sooner marry her job than marry her redheaded lover. Now, she would have no choice.

There were sympathy cards on her desk to reiterate what their eyes had already told her. She sighed and shoved them into the garbage on her right. They disappeared. Out of sight, out of mind.

Her work had somehow not piled up on her while she had been gone for… how many days? She realized she didn't know. They had blurred together, between finding out and owling in to work and screaming and crying and breaking herself to beat the pain away. A week had passed in a blur of grey and rain.

Ginny waved at her from a thick black frame and blew her a playful kiss. Hermione felt herself slip away until she heard the rustle of fabric and the click of expensive heels.

"I took your assignments while you were gone," said that familiar French lilt. "They were not difficult to fit into my own work. Though if you would like something to forget, here is what I missed." Fleur slipped a manila folder out of her hands and in front of Hermione with grace, her bare arm touching Hermione's shoulder delicately. The brunette shivered slightly and pulled her sweater closer to her body.

A soft whisper against her ear: "Don't forget about my offer. You know you have me to talk to."

The breath chilled her hollow heart and filled the empty space with ice.

…

"Stop fidgeting!" Ginny whined, slumping away from the canvas with a frown. The thick paint brush was dripping with corn silk yellow, plopping slowly on her already paint-stained jeans.

"I can't help it," Hermione protested, fixing the pale green sheet covering her again. "I don't know if I like the idea of being painted; you could change something about me you don't really like."

Ginny tilted her head to the side, regarding Hermione with a strange, uncomprehending expression. "That's ridiculous, Hermione," she responded matter-of-factly. "Why would I want to fix perfection?"

Hermione blushed. Ginny washed the brush clean of yellow and added the rosy pink to her cheeks.

…

"You're smiling," Fleur commented.

Hermione woke herself with a jerk and her lips quickly fell. A dream, a memory; she wished she had stayed trapped in her head. But there was Fleur, leaning against the side of her desk, her manicured nails displayed on the hard wood and her realness evident by the green and blue veins visible beneath her skin, even paler than Hermione's. They matched Fleur's outfit.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, vaguely alarmed at her monotonous tone.

"It's lunch," Fleur replied. "And it doesn't look like you've eaten in days. Why don't you eat with me today? I will pay. I know of a nice café down the street."

Why did her voice sound like silk and running water, smooth and relaxing? A part of Hermione grasped for the signs of simple empathy, lacking pity; another part recoiled from it, determined to be on its own.

Ginny twirled in the corner of her eye, the photograph moving again. It had been one of the few times she had agreed to wear a skirt. They had been on vacation to La Côte d'Azur, swimming and playing by the Mediterranean Sea. They had seen the skirt in a shop; Hermione had badgered her lover for half an hour to try it on, and then another ten minutes to buy it.

"No," Hermione replied hollowly, closing like a creaking door. "I'm not hungry."

She could feel Fleur freeze slightly with the rejection, and then slowly melt again. The French woman could not be angry with a woman who had only a week ago lost the love of her life. There would be time.

She left in a rustle of silk and quiet persistence.

…

Hermione stared at the painting for hours, tears creating a rain on her still-healing hands. Once it had been completed to Ginny's satisfaction, she had insisted to hang it in plain, glorious sight.

Ginny's brush had eternalized the messy nature of her hair right after lovemaking, how it tousled and curled. She had found the perfect mix of yellow and green for her eyes, had made them bright and content, shining. She had perfected the tint of her cheeks when compliments kissed them. The swell of her breasts only barely covered by the rumpled sheet pulled over her chest were not over exaggerated; they were exactly the right size. Every detail was correct and beautiful.

Hermione really had been perfect. But it was only because Ginny had painted her like that.


	2. one: half empty

Warnings: vampire jokes, suicidal thoughts.

one: half-empty

Every morning, Hermione would wake with the expectation of groggy mumbling and a warm embrace. Every morning, she would feel the immeasurable sting of disappointment at finding herself alone and force herself from the confines of the cold blankets.

They were both creatures of habit. The alarm would ring and Hermione would sigh before gently turning the offending noise off. Ginny would roll over, consequently into Hermione, in order to continue sleeping and keep her lover in the bed with her. They would snuggle for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of their bodies, before Hermione would insist upon getting out of bed for coffee.

Today, there was nothing keeping her there but her own lack of comprehension about where Ginny had gone. And even that could not destroy the realities of being alone in her bed every morning, the coldness she felt there. The sheets still smelled of Ginny, her perfume and sweat. Their lovemaking. It was all there, on this bed they had shared.

Loneliness was enough to get her moving. She only let herself crawl into bed when she was unable to keep her eyes open anymore. The memories were too painful to continue going through. It was still so fresh and open.

Fresh enough to make her take two mugs out of the cupboard – always two. She would hold the extra mug in her hand and stare at it; feeling like a revelation should come from it. If she still took out two, would that mean that Ginny would finally come home? She hoped, as single lovers do. She hoped for some kind of miracle in the form of a cinnamon-colored mug.

Caffeinated, Hermione left her cup by the sink to shower, leaving the door open slightly as to not hear Ginny trying to be sneaky. The redhead would sleep through the first five minutes of the sounds of running water before she would creep into the bathroom and slink through the sheer curtain to allow the hot water and Hermione's body to finish what the alarm had started.

Alone, it took Hermione fifteen minutes. The water, turned hot enough, gave the illusion of fingers brushing across her skin, steam visibly rising and fogging the air around her. It helped take the edge from the chill she always felt now. Ginny had taken her warmth with her to the grave.

She closed her eyes while she washed her hair. Ginny used to do it for her; she would thread her fingers within the slightly curly locks and massage her scalp gently. Hermione reveled in the feeling. She paid special care to how she washed herself, trying to recreate the softness of Ginny in her hands.

Finding clothes to wear was a chore. She had yet to clear away Ginny's clothing; everything smelled like her, even freshly-laundered articles. She wanted to cry every time she opened a drawer.

Ginny liked helping her dress, liked helping her decide what to wear. They would speculate together; Ginny just wanted another excuse to look at her naked form before they would both have to dress and leave each other's company for a majority of the day.

Hermione dressed quickly and left the apartment.

…

Time moved like it didn't want her to ever leave her office. She turned her heart off and made Floo calls to distant international relations: school heads, ministry representatives, people with such thick accents Hermione was swimming in them. They were all to serve different purposes, but the underlying message was always clear: keep them chained to Britain.

She talked to a dragon specialist in Romania. She was afraid he was going to see her tears through the connection, become offended, never want to speak with the British Ministry of Magic ever again.

But it would mean that she would never have to think about Romania.

…

"It's just for a couple of days," Ginny told her, sending more socks into her trunk. They arranged themselves neatly on top of her jeans. "I'll be staying with Charlie and his new boyfriend."

"You'll owl?" Hermione asked her uncertainly, feeling heavy-hearted. Since their engagement, they hadn't spent any night apart. Despite her logic, her fear that something would take Ginny away from her was stronger.

Ginny turned to her and smiled crookedly before pulling the brunette into her arms. "I'll owl you every day," she promised.

…

Hermione shook her head free of cobwebs and turned to see Fleur Delacour waiting for her. She sighed inwardly. The French woman would not abandon her persistence; finding the energy to deny her was becoming frustrating.

"Lunch today?" Fleur asked, fiddling flirtatiously with a quill still black with ink. "You have denied me twice this week. Perhaps you could indulge me, just this once?"

She sighed outwardly. She was so empty; maybe she did need some company. Hermione realized, after some thought, that she hadn't even eaten in days. "All right," she heard herself say, half-wearily. "Just this once."

The café was crowded and loud. Hermione had become used to the deafening quiet she had surrounded herself with recently. She retreated slightly, unwilling to go through with the implied social interaction; ordering, small talk, Fleur's questioning: _how are you holding up?_ _Is there anything I can do?_ But the French woman pulled her closer, their arms touching, and led her to a two-chair table against a wall.

Trapped by surrounding tables and their occupants and a commitment to water and a hummus sandwich (which had been randomly picked off the menu), Hermione pulled in a large inhale to prepare for the slew of "too much information" questions to come. The pity. The sympathy. The condolences that meant nothing.

"She died in Romania, didn't she?" Fleur asked quietly, after nearly five minutes of complete silence.

Hermione dropped away without moving. "Yes." It was a hollow answer. It had become quite obvious to civilization that Virginia Weasley had died in Romania. It was less than obvious that Hermione had died there as well.

"You were together a long time," Fleur continued. There was no question mark. It was okay for Hermione to stay silent. "The paper said it had been five years."

_Only five?_ Hermione wanted to ask. The ring on her finger had promised her an eternity. Where had that gone?

With Ginny, buried with red and orange tulips and Hermione's heart. Tulips had always been Ginny's favorite. There was a painting of tulips on the wall; a bright, sunny field of them under a blue sky.

The tulips were moving. Hermione closed her eyes briefly and saw an open road, Ginny driving them through the country, wanting to look at the stars. It had been a good day, full of loud music and sex in fields and random stops to take photographs, to sketch. Ginny said she loved driving, but was afraid to do it in the city.

"Hermione," Fleur said, voice dripping with honey-soaked concern. The blonde moved toward her across the table, hand outstretched to touch her. "Are you all right?"

No; this was all wrong. Hermione focused in on Fleur's eyes and saw them as light blue-grey, flecked with green. Smiling, happy eyes. Then she blinked again, and they were just grey. Just grey.

"I have to go," she said shakily, blinded by tears and the feeling that Ginny should be the one she was eating lunch with. But Ginny was gone; Ginny would never be with her again.

"Hermione," Fleur tried again. Pity and helplessness snuck into her voice. It grinded against Hermione's skin like rounded nails, pushing, threatening to break her.

"No." She was shaking her head. "I can't… I can't do this." She shoved back her chair and left the French woman alone to deal with her defeat.

She left a half-empty glass of water.

…

Where was Ginny? Why hadn't she decided to come back?

Hermione wandered around their apartment, unable to settle and unwilling to leave. The incident at the café was ages ago. She wondered what Fleur thought of her now; strong Hermione Granger, falling apart at the seams like an old rag doll. Every picture frame she fondled was a seam ripper to her skin, pulling out black thread.

She had thought that the first time she and Ginny had broken up that that had been pain. It had been the deepest form of heart-wrenching agony she had ever experienced. She had never stopped crying.

But what was this? It was like her soul had been ripped out. She had never felt so empty, so without purpose. So dead to the world.

She hated being here; she hated the complications of being alone. She hated that Ginny had left her to fend for herself, no heart to speak of. Hadn't the redhead understood that Hermione would be lost? How could she have just let her go like this? Why hadn't she come back yet?

How long had it been now? Three weeks; maybe four. Time didn't really matter. Hermione based her routine off of predetermined deadlines. She would be to work by eight. She would come home by six. She would fall asleep at ten. Her body had become so accustomed to this routine that she didn't even have to think about it. In reality, the only thing Hermione found comfort in was sleeping.

She wished she could fall asleep and never wake up.

She thought wildly about how maybe no one would really miss her. They would understand if she left, too. They would stare at her empty body with pitying eyes and understand that she left because Ginny was gone. It was madness, pure madness, which would take her down. The unyielding misery of grief, always present in the back of her brain. Love like that never disappeared or dissipated at all. She would be stuck in this hollow shell until the day of her death.

But Ginny would never forgive her for taking her own life. She could see the encounter, wherever they went when they died: Ginny's arms crossed, Hermione's wrists slit but no longer bleeding. Both of their forms would be solid with an ethereal glow; transcendent.

"What about everything we worked for?" Ginny would ask, eyes brimming with tears. She would clutch at Hermione's hands and run her fingers over the dried blood.

"It died with you," Hermione would try to explain, crying red tears.

Ginny would shake her head. Hermione would feel the weight of her disappointment like a mountain on her shoulders. "No, Hermione," she would explain, their eyes meeting. "It died with _you_."

She woke up to these dreams sometimes. They kept her alive. Alive, but barely breathing.

…

"I'll make you a sandwich," Harry said. He had appeared in her apartment like a shadow, his dark hair and brooding malachite eyes fitting for the scene. The rooms were dark, lit by the grey-purple light of dusk.

"I'm not hungry," flew out of her mouth like a bird let out of a cage. "Besides, I haven't invited you in."

Her best friend rolled his eyes, raising an eyebrow. "I know I'm pale, but leave the vampire jokes at the door," he told her.

"I wasn't joking," she said, bristling. She didn't want company. She didn't want to be fed. She didn't want to have friends or relationships. She simply wanted to be left alone.

Harry sighed sadly. His shoulders sagged slightly, but his resolve was fast. He walked to the kitchen and began pulling out the necessary ingredients from their designated spots.

She let him, feeling sorry for her actions, and rested her weight against the counter. Harry loved Ginny, too. She opened her mouth to apologize, but found herself unable to speak. Her emotional disposition was even more fragile than a wine glass balancing on the edge of a knife; as Harry worked to create her sustenance, she felt the wine glass slipping down the blade.

Ginny; she missed Ginny so much. Harry was like a representation of loss as a whole. The Boy Who Lived had seen far too many die. One minute, she felt infinitely desolate; the next, she felt selfish and naïve. Why should she cry for one person, when Harry had been seeing his loved ones die since his birth?

She was a wretched teenager again; but no, that brought back too many memories. Her first kiss, sloppy and wet, with a boy who could barely pronounce her name. The second, the third, the fourth, every kiss after that was delivered by the most desired girl in the school. Studying by the lake, the breeze billowing their skirts up, exposing milky calves and the briefest glimpse of a shapely thigh. Her first sexual experience was in a broom closet. They had been too afraid to paw at each other in the public eye.

Then all she could see, in the brightest clarity, was a sixteen-year-old Ginny in her Hogwarts uniform, close and looking up at her shyly. Hermione's blood roared in her ears. She watched this memorized Ginny's lips move, form the words "I love you." It had been the first time Ginny had said that. She knew it better than she knew her own heart.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, shaking her shoulder gently. She abandoned the image of Ginny and looked at him with widened eyes. He frowned sympathetically, setting the sandwich on the counter to be dealt with later, and pulled his best friend into his arms. "Hermione…" he said again, lacking the quixotic tone of its predecessor.

She cried into him for a long time. She understood that this was what she needed to do. He did nothing to move her, to calm her down; she appreciated the fact that he was there because of that. Despite his gender's natural clueless state when it came to women, Harry was surprisingly empathic.

When she finished, finding little to no strength left to release the grief she still felt, Harry smiled at her half-heartedly and re-offered her the sandwich. She took it with a small smile of her own and slowly began to eat; she hadn't even realized she was hungry.


	3. two: past tense

WARNINGS: Vampire jokes.

two: past tense

They were laughing. Hermione felt it bubble out of her throat like carbonation, the fizz exploding on her lips. Harry grinned at her, and she was smiling back. They had been exchanging memories of Ginny for just over an hour, recalling funny moments from their past with her. It was a painful sort of good, an exercise of her emotional control; while she wanted to cry because her lover was gone, she was laughing because it had all been so wonderful.

"I'm really glad that you're the one who ended up with her," Harry told her, once their laughter had died down.

She looked at him curiously, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean, even though I did care about her once, I don't think I could have given her what you did," he explained, gathering his thoughts from the ceiling. "The connection you had together… It was unbreakable. Even that time when you were broken up, neither of you dated anyone else. That kind of commitment is really special."

Hermione nodded, drifting away on the sea of melancholy. The past tense was hard on her brain. Ginny should be coming home any minute now… "I know," she replied quietly, eyes stinging. "I wish I hadn't lost that."

"You haven't lost it," Harry said, surprising her into looking up. His eyes were intense, boring into her with their seriousness, with their passionate belief. "It'll be there forever."

She smiled slightly, but she wasn't sure if she really believed.

…

"What're you writing?"

Ginny snuck up behind her, reaching around her waist in order to grab the parchment from her hands. Hermione, feeling her cheeks becoming hot, attempted to swat at her quick hands.

"It's nothing," she protested. She looked out towards the field behind the Burrow, seeing the boys playing Quidditch. The very last thing she needed was Ginny parading around her poetry to the Weasley boys and Harry; well, in all honesty, she would have preferred Ginny not looking at it in the first place.

"If it were nothing, you wouldn't be trying to hide it," Ginny retorted, grinning. Hermione frowned and reached for it; Ginny danced away, waving it teasingly, before racing off. "Catch me if you want it back!"

Hermione let out a frustrated cry before pushing herself off the ground and taking off after her, legs unused to running. Her lungs burned with the effort, and her stomach twisted uncomfortably in her abdomen. What if Ginny read it?

"Ginny, please!" Hermione called out breathlessly. The redhead was at least twenty yards away, looking back every so often to make sure Hermione was behind her. Then, without warning, she disappeared.

Hermione panicked. Ginny was a year too young for Apparation, though that wouldn't have stopped her brothers from teaching her how. But why would she risk expulsion at the cost of getting away from Hermione? Ginny wasn't as reckless as Fred and George.

"Gin-!" she started to yell, until her feet found no ground to stand on and she stumbled, landing on her elbow, the bone stinging. It wasn't magic; it was just a hollow.

Ginny was sitting with her legs curled beneath her, nestled in a corner of dirt and rock. Hermione watched helplessly as her blue eyes scanned over the page, face becoming more and more unreadable.

"Ginny," she whispered hoarsely. She felt tears forming behind her eyes at the thought of Ginny not just rejecting her romantically, as her poetry implied, but also platonically. "Let me explain…" But she trailed off. She couldn't think of any words of explanation.

Ginny didn't say anything. Hermione felt like her heart was going to burst with waiting. Then, out of nowhere, Ginny drew in a slow breath. "I don't really think there's much to explain," she said unsteadily.

Hermione swallowed around her dry mouth. "Why not?" she asked anxiously. Nothing moved; the only sounds were coming from the carrying yells of the makeshift Quidditch match and birds singing to each other.

Then Ginny began moving towards her, smiling mysteriously, coming closer than Hermione would have liked just then, with so many uncertainties floating in this little hollow. Ginny's lips were mere inches from hers; Hermione wanted to kiss her, and at the thought, her face turned numerous shades of red.

"Hermione," Ginny replied, her hot breath brushing against Hermione's cheek, "if you thought this was bad, you should see my sketch book."

…

She still had the poem. She fished it out of a drawer and gave it to Harry, watched his eyebrows rise as he read it.

"You were really after her," he commented, laughing a little. "I can't believe you wrote this just before seventh year. It's quite… descriptive, for being so inexperienced in that particular… _area_."

Hermione shrugged a little and nonchalantly took it back. It was still slightly enchanting to see the words written down; they had been in her head for ages. She had the whole thing memorized.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Harry asked after a few minutes of silence, searching for some sign of emotion from her.

Hermione sighed, barely able to tear her eyes from the parchment in her hands. "Yeah," she replied, more wearily than she had intended. To lighten the mood, she smiled. "But you're sticking to the couch."

Harry grinned. "No problem," he replied. "I'll just suck your blood while you're sleeping."

She laughed. It felt good to do this again, to be around someone who wasn't always shooting her worried looks. She wondered if she would be able to maintain this level of okay on her own, or if it was even worth trying to without Ginny.

This diminished her slightly. Harry could see it in the way her shoulders sagged and her smiling lips went slack. Her guilt permeated his senses like thick fog. He sliced it with a hand on her shoulder, then a tight hug.

"Ginny would want you to just be happy," he whispered soothingly. "She's not really gone."

Hermione couldn't think of anything to say.

…

Harry tucked her into bed like a child, telling her a silly story about a boy and a dragon and the princess who saved them both. She laughed and gasped in the appropriate places, knowing he was trying to make her out to be the heroine. When he was finished, he bent down and kissed her forehead softly. She smiled up at him sleepily.

"Sleep well, princess," he told her, before turning. When he reached the door, Hermione called out to him gently. He turned, waiting expectantly for her to speak.

"Thank you," she said. He smiled, nodded, and pulled the door mostly closed behind him.

Hermione snuggled between the sheets, able to enjoy the smell of Ginny still present now that her mood had improved slightly. Maybe she needed to start living again, start appreciating the fact that Ginny had been there in the first place. Harry was right; she would've just wanted Hermione to be happy.

"Damn right I want you to be happy," Ginny said.

Hermione sat up quickly in the bed. Ginny's voice had been very clear in her ears but the redhead was nowhere in sight. Past her own fast-beating heart, she could hear Harry making a bed out of her sofa. He would have come and told her if Ginny were there; as a ghost, as… whatever. Maybe she really wasn't dead. Maybe it had been a mistake.

But no, that wasn't true. Hermione shakily let herself lay down again, eyes darting every so often to make sure that she was alone in the room. She didn't want to be alone. She really wanted to believe that Ginny was still with her. After all, how else could she have heard her so clearly? Her memories never sounded so alive.

It was fatigue; she hadn't been sleeping well. She wasn't thinking straight. Logic gripped her and pulled her, as she halfheartedly fought, into the realm of dreams.

…

Owl claws tapped gently at the glass door of her balcony. Fork paused halfway to her mouth; Hermione terminated the action and placed it on her plate before standing. With a gentle click, the door unlocked and slid open. The bird presented its rolled up parchment to her with the air of one who knows its duty and would do it well; she smiled gently and stroked its feathers.

"Thank you," she told the owl, and with a humanlike bob of its head, it flew away.

"Who's it from?" Harry asked from the table as she came to sit back down, unrolling the parchment as she went. She scanned over the letter, trying to decipher the calligraphy-like scrawl.

_Hermione,_

_I do hope you are feeling better than you were at our lunch date yesterday. I would hope to try again, if you let me. I understand that it was quite out of my place to mention something so precious to you, knowing so little about it. I apologize sincerely; please forgive me, Hermione Granger. I would love to make it up to you._

_Fleur Delacour_

"Fleur," she replied with a surprised tone. "She's apologizing to me for me running off on her yesterday." She frowned a little. "She's been flirting with me ever since…" She trailed off, unable to finish.

Harry nodded. "I can imagine," he replied. "I think she's had a little crush on you ever since she started working at the Ministry. At least, that's what I always gathered from those little parties you and Gin would drag me to."

Hermione sighed, setting the parchment on the table. "I know. And Gin would hold me a little closer and give her the piercing look of death, then she'd laugh a little nervously, wish us a good evening, and not bother us for the rest of the night."

Harry read over the note, chewing thoughtfully on a forkful of French toast as he did so. After swallowing, he handed it back to her and half-smiled. "Looks like you've got worse problems than vampires."

"You're right," she said, frowning back at him. "I have a horny Veela set on winning my heart."

"Are you going to let her?" Harry asked pointedly.

Hermione shook her head, but wasn't sure if that was the right answer. She settled on ambivalence, washed it down with orange juice. "I don't know."


	4. three: two plus three equals four

three: two plus three equals four

A note changed in the routine, a hair of misplacement to the normal schedule. Hermione went to work and came home with a smile on her face. She never understood why.

The French woman had more in common with her than she had realized. The same books had been read, the same passages memorized. The same favorite Muggle movies. Hermione watched it all happen, this slow seduction by intellectualism, and while there was that part of her screaming for her to make it stop, she didn't. She let Fleur touch her hand, the small of her back, leading her through the restaurant or movie theater. She let Fleur kiss her on the cheek, let her eyes linger for a few moments longer than necessary.

She didn't even really want it, she realized after every one of their dates together. She just needed someone to make the loneliness subside. She needed someone to help her forget.

Fleur really was a lovely distraction.

…

"Good afternoon, Arthur," Hermione said with a smile as she walked into the Burrow, letting her jacket sleeves slip from her shoulders. Arthur Weasley took it for her and set it on a rack by the door. She noticed Ron's hanging there and frowned slightly, but quickly demolished her outward apprehension. "How are things here?"

"Just fine, thank you," he replied. Ginny's death had hit him hard; where wrinkles had never been creases had appeared; there were thick circles under his eyes and Hermione noticed small patches of greying hair in the trademark red. "And with you, Hermione? We haven't heard from you in quite a while."

She blushed slightly. By 'quite a while,' he had really meant since a week or two after Ginny's funeral. She had felt like she had been overstepping her boundaries by continuing to think of the Weasleys as her family, too; she had speculated that the welcome would have died with Ginny. Then an owl had showed up at her house only two days before, Molly Weasley demanding politely that her Hermione dear visit a grumpy old woman for a cup of tea. Smiling, Hermione had written her back with an apology and an affirmation.

"You're still our daughter-in-law," he told her, echoing her thoughts. "Ginny being gone doesn't change the way we care about you. We're still your family."

Hermione nodded, looking down, shamed. "I know," she said softly.

Arthur smiled, pulling her into a hug. She accepted it wholeheartedly. When he pulled away, he had brightness to his eyes that Hermione hadn't seen in a while. "Now," he said, "let's see what Molly's made for tea, shall we?"

…

"Hermione, will you just grab this," Ginny said in a slightly strained voice, pulling a pan of fresh biscuits from the oven. Hermione quickly ran over to take it, balancing it on top of her oven mitts.

"Are we going to tell your mum today?" Hermione asked out of the corner of her mouth, afraid of being overheard. She took the biscuits gingerly off the pan and into a bread basket, arranging them carefully so they would all fit. Ginny, busy taking out the right number of tea cups, didn't answer. Her face was strained in concentration, more concentration than necessary for such a simple task. Hermione waited for a few minutes, then tried again. "Gin?"

Ginny looked up, startled. "What?"

"Are we going to tell your mum today?" she said with a little more annunciation. She noticed how Ginny's face whitened slightly at the question. Hermione felt automatically guilty. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, "we don't have to… today, at least."

Ginny shook her head, tripping to get over to Hermione quickly. "No, we can tell her today," Ginny replied. "I want to… You know I want to." They smiled at each other nervously. "I'm just… I'm a little scared, that's all."

"You don't think I am?" Hermione asked, puckering her eyebrows.

Ginny sighed, kissing her lightly. "I know you are. But everything's going to be okay. My mum loves you. My dad loves you. Hell, even my brother loves you." Hermione laughed a little. Ginny grinned. "See? Everything's fine. It'll be a piece of cake."

Hermione bit her lip. "You don't think we should make a cake, do you?"

Ginny thought for a moment, then nodded. "It probably wouldn't hurt."

…

They sat around the living room, three redheads and a brunette. In her head, it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. In reality, Hermione really didn't mind taking tea with the Weasleys; Molly and Arthur really were like her parents. But Ron made her feel like she had an itch that she couldn't scratch. He hovered around her like a cobweb caught on her hand, unable to pull completely off. He'd been like that since Hogwarts, since before her and Ginny. Ron never gave up hope that maybe, just maybe, she'd chosen The Wrong Weasley.

He approached her once Molly disappeared into the kitchen, leaning close and smelling vaguely of cheap cologne. She held in a sigh and let him mumble into her ear. "Want to go for a walk?"

She shrugged her complacency. He announced it to his parents as they stood and he helped her with her coat, his hands lingering on her shoulders. She stepped out of his potential embrace and heard him sigh softly; or maybe it was just the rustling of his coat.

It wasn't too chilly, just an occasional breeze that made goose bumps rise on their arms and legs. Hermione took in their surroundings, the field where the boys and Ginny would play Quidditch, the path to the small pond where they would swim, the trees and the tall grass. It was all still the same superficially, but Hermione could feel the change in the air from when she was a teenager, even from when she would come here with Ginny as an adult. Ginny's heart, which had originally filled this place, was subtracted from the sunset and the difference was glaring to Hermione's trained eyes. There were only ghosts here.

They didn't speak as they walked. She could tell Ron was mustering up the courage to tell her something. She hoped desperately that he would lose his nerve. She didn't want to deal with his grasping for straws that didn't exist, trying to find the glimpse of a glimmer in her eyes when she looked at him when there wasn't anything notable for her to see. Ronald Weasley would always be Ronald Weasley; not Ron darling, or Ronald honey, or the inadmissible Won-Won. He was Ronald Weasley, friend. He was Ronald Weasley, Ginny's littlest older brother.

She heard his intake of breath. Her insides steeled and her skin became her armor. She closed her eyes against the coming assault and let the arrows fly at her. "Hermione," he began uncertainly. She stopped and looked at him. She wondered if he thought she looked beautiful, and hated him for thinking of her like that. "You know I, I care about you." He looked uncertainly away, towards the sunset, down at the grass. "What I mean to say is, I… Sometimes I wish things could have been different." His blue eyes, slightly darker than his sister's, slid up to her face. "Do you ever wish that?"

She feigned a misinterpretation. "For some things, of course," she answered. "Everyone does."

"What about… you and me?"

Ah. There it was, the atomic bomb over Hiroshima, the release of radiation over a delicate land. She could feel it pollute their friendship in a rush of toxins. She reasoned internally that maybe, once upon a time when she had been young and foolish, she had played with the idea of a romance with him. But this was back when romance was intangible, back when her breasts hadn't yet poked out from her skin and she prayed that she would get her period soon to start this wretched process she had heard about so much. This was back when no one paid attention to her, boys and girls alike. Ron had been a relief to her ego that she was desirable – back when she was twelve through fourteen. Then Viktor filled that space. Then she realized that boys for her were like thinking two plus three equals four. The equation didn't quite fit. Then she found Ginny, the missing puzzle piece, and everything fell into place. Ron was in the picture as a smiling face in the background.

"Ron," she said slowly, cautiously. His frightened stance reminded her of him as a teenager. "There never was a you and me. I realized this very early on, even when I still toyed with the idea of it." She rubbed her temples gently and watched his hurt but still hopeful expression with exasperation. "You know how much I love Ginny."

"But, Ginny's gone," he blurted wildly. Desperation crept into his voice. "And you're lonely, and I'm a good substitute!" He waved his arms to exaggerate his words, gesturing pulling at her sleeves, eyebrows knit together and lips pouted. "I could love you just like she did. It could be the same-"

Her palm connected with a crack to his exposed cheek. Her hand smarted. His face, slightly reddened from blood rushing and the blow, reflected shock. Words bubbled out of her mouth like a raging waterfall.

"Don't you ever say that again," she hissed. "How dare you think you could replace her in my life, like she was just a placeholder for when you could step in and be the hero?" He opened his mouth to speak; without thinking, she slapped him again. "Fuck you, Ron. Don't ever bring this up to me ever again. You're just as insensitive as you always have been. I don't want to see you until you can fucking grow up and get over it."

He glared at her, rage mingled with shame mixed with an ego burst and emotions aching. "Fine," he spat, "but maybe you should just _fucking_ get over it, too." With hunched shoulders, he popped out of sight.

…

There was nothing really remarkable in the way they came together. There was no magnetic force, no controlled whirlwind breeze. Hermione just started going over there. Her apartment was only a shrine for a love that didn't exist anymore. Or, at least, a love that was no longer even remotely tangible.

Fleur's apartment was clean and modern. Her furniture was in hues of blue with black accents. Everything was glass and leather. The paintings on the wall were by up-and-coming European artists and a few prints of Georgia O'Keefe's flowers: just subtle brush strokes of a woman's vagina, open and ready. Hermione blushed when she saw them, and discreetly crossed her legs.

"Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?" Fleur asked, still standing. There was a slight curl to her mouth, like everything was going according to plan. Hermione wondered vaguely if Fleur planned on sleeping with her.

"You mean there's something stronger than coffee?" Hermione wondered.

Fleur laughed, then nodded resolutely. "I have the perfect thing."

Her accent slipped out even more when she was drunk. The Frenchwoman drank glass after glass of dark red wine, slipping from one tongue to the next. Hermione drank more slowly, asking for glasses of water with her alcohol. She wasn't stupid.

"Ah, ma cherie, pourquoi est-ce tu es triste?" Fleur purred in her native language, crawling across the distance. Hermione felt her stomach twist uncomfortably when she came too close, sliding over to avoid Fleur's touch. She didn't want this, not yet. It wasn't time; she was just a virgin to this experienced touch. She needed preparation, comfort, something more than a wine-induced lust and slurred French phrases.

She needed Ginny back.

"My lover died two months ago," she replied frankly. Fleur blinked confusedly, trying to understand. While her brain processed, Hermione slipped off the couch and grabbed her coat from the rack by the front door. She could hear the sounds of Fleur attempting to follow her, tripping over her own drunkenness.

"Going, so soon?" Fleur pouted.

Hermione sighed and Apparated with a disapproving pop.

…

The wine in her system mingled with the general disorientation of Apparation. Dizzy, she fell to the floor ungracefully and looked around her dark apartment with swirling eyes, images of red hair everywhere.

What the hell was she doing? Ginny had only been gone for two months. Just because she was lonely, just because she was lost, didn't give her any right to attempt to find a solution in someone else, especially in that drunken ex-supermodel. She hadn't told anyone of her and Fleur, not only because there was barely anything there, but also because she was ashamed of herself. Burying her grief in hard kisses and lunches out wouldn't make it go away.

"Hermione, you're being too hard on yourself." Hermione lifted her head slightly from the floor, looking around. She didn't have any talking photographs. Ginny was dead. And yet that voice… it most certainly belonged to her redheaded lover. But where was she? "I understand that… that it's hard to be without me, okay? I don't want you to fall to pieces. I really do just want you to be happy. You understand that, right?"

Hermione swallowed. The voice was just behind her frontal lobe, like a conscience, a slight tickling of her brain. Ginny was just in her head. She was just telling herself the things Ginny would say to her if she could. So she answered, "Yes… I understand, but…"

She could imagine Ginny smiling a little, shaking her head. "Don't argue with me, lover. You know I know better than you right now. You're not in your right mind."

Hermione snorted a little and rubbed her temples. "I'll say. I'm hearing your voice in my head."

"It's better than nothing, isn't it?" Ginny's voice was tinged with sadness and regret. "I'm really sorry I died."

"I am, too." Hermione sighed and pulled herself off the floor, peeling off her coat. She set the garment on the couch arm and then settled into the comfy red cushions. She and Ginny used to sit together for hours, talking quietly and just enjoying each other's presence. "I really miss you, Gin."

"I really miss you, too, sweetheart," Ginny replied. Hermione felt her skin warm a little. Whether it was just a psychological effect or not wasn't really important to her. "But I know we'll see each other again."

Hermione felt suddenly sleepy. Maybe the alcohol had hit her more than she had realized. Her eyelids began falling. She clutched to consciousness for another brief moment. "Promise?"

She barely heard Ginny's answer in her head: "I promise."


End file.
